


The Long Run

by kireteiru



Series: Never Forget [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: (That's a Beautiful Tag), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Angst, Belegaer, Canonical Character Death, Character Death, Curses, Dubious Geology and Geologic Processes, Elder Scrolls (mentioned), F/M, Fake Identities, Implied/Referenced Character Death, John and Mary's Wedding (mentioned), M/M, Mentions of the following:, Multi, Sherlock Holmes in Middle-earth, Silmarils, Telperion and Laurelin, The Arkenstone is Bad News, The Great Sea, The Old World (aka Sherlock's World), The Silmarillion References, The Two Trees of Valinor, Volcanoes, Wedding Rings, Weddings, Years of the Trees, hello naughty children it's angst time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-22
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-09-26 07:19:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,169
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9873182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kireteiru/pseuds/kireteiru
Summary: Timestamps for the Never Forget series, from the end ofThe Hobbitto the beginning ofThe Lord of the Rings.





	1. Excision

**Author's Note:**

> Because I'm having trouble finding complete, USABLE transcripts of the LotR extended editions, have some random nonsense. As usual, titles of the work and chapters are from the Halo soundtracks. (I might start adding in some Elder Scrolls track names, too.)

“It truly is that hard for you, then.”

Smaug cracked open an eye. Dale was in the process of being restored, and the people of Laketown had finally come to claim what he had promised them: ten gold coins per person, more than many of them saw in their entire lives, as recompense for destroying their homes and lives. The dragon himself was well away from the hoard while they claimed it, knowing that if it happened before his own eyes he would not allow it, but he was confident that the dwarves would only allow them to take what was due to them.

Instead, he lay curled on a high platform overlooking the throne room. He had heard his visitors approaching, but waited until they spoke to acknowledge them. **“It is,”** he rumbled to the dwarf prince, **“You felt a shadow of it fall on your heart when I was shot.”**

“Sorry about that,” said Bard.

 **“I was trying to murder you at the time; it’s fine.”** He turned back to the prince, soon to be king. **“But for you, that was only a shadow, and so you were able to throw it off. You were not made by Darkness, out of Fire and Greed. The goldlust does not twine round your bones and fill your heart and mind until there is nothing left.”**

“You gave up the Arkenstone easily enough,” Gandalf pointed out.

Smaug huffed. **“That is because it _was_ easy. That stone is _cursed_ , and it is not _gold._ ”**

 _“‘Cursed?!’”_ Thorin cried, “What do you mean, _‘cursed?!_ ’”

 **“Perhaps the stone itself was not cursed once, but it _is_ bound up in one.”** The dragon looked away, and they all followed his gaze to where the Arkenstone had been set back in the repaired throne of Erebor. **“Tell me, Thorin-King: what do you know of the Silmarils?”**

He frowned and shook his head. “I have heard the term, but I know nothing about them.”

**“My egg was not yet laid when they vanished from Middle-earth, and though I read much about them in the Old World, it is not the same. Gandalf, will you tell the tale?”**

The wizard sat down on a bench and pulled out his pipe. “To tell the story in its entirety would take a long time indeed, so I shall summarize as best I can.

“Back during the First Age of Arda, before the Years of the Sun, Valinor was lit by Two Trees, Telperion and Laurelin, and Middle-earth lay in darkness. It was during this time that the elves were discovered by the Valar and lead into the West to live in the light of the trees. To two of these was born a son who came to be called Fëanor for his fiery spirit. The works of his hands were great indeed, but the greatest of all were the Silmarils, three gems of indescribable beauty filled with the light and essence of the Two Trees.

“For a long time, Fëanor wore them set into a crown so all could see them and marvel at his work, but in those days, Morgoth was at work, spreading deceit amongst the elves. Fëanor grew to distrust all, even the Valar, and hid the Silmarils away from everyone save his father and sons.

“Eventually, the truth came out, and Morgoth fled Valinor, returning in secret with the Spider Ungoliant. Together they destroyed the trees and stole the Silmarils, slaying many elves in the process, including Fëanor’s father, Finwë. He and his sons swore an oath upon the name of Illúvatar that they would never allow any to withhold a Silmaril from them, and to pursue with violence any who tried, whatever their race or reason.

“One Silmaril was recovered by Beren and Lúthien, the lovers of legend in the First Age. Their granddaughter’s husband, Eärendil the Mariner, wears it now, and with it traverses the sky in his ship Vingilótë, guarding the Sun and Moon.

“The other Silmarils were reclaimed by the Valar during the War of Wrath, and stolen again by Maedhros and Maglor, the last of Fëanor’s sons. But the Silmarils rejected their claim of ownership, and burned them both. Maedhros threw himself together with the Silmaril into a fiery pit. Maglor threw his into the deeps of the sea, so far that even Ulmo, Lord of the Deeps, could not find it, and then he passed out of all knowledge.”

The five sat in silence for several minutes before Thorin turned to Smaug. “And you believed that the Arkenstone is one of these Silmarils? The one thrown into the fire?”

 **“It was a popular belief in the Old World. But it could be either of them, really, if indeed it is a Silmaril.”** The dragon hummed. **“I admit, I do not recall much of the Earth Sciences of the Old World, but I know there is a way.”** His eyes narrowed. **“It had something to do with the crust of the earth, and a deep trench, and earthquakes.”**

“Sub… subd… Subduction!”

 **“ _That’s it!_ ”** The dragon grinned at the hobbit, then turned back to the others. **“The world – the Old World, at least – sits atop the core of the earth like rafts on water, but they’re _very_ large and very close together, so close that there are almost no gaps to see what’s beneath. The liquid rock underneath has… currents like the ocean, like rivers, and it makes the earth-rafts move, sometimes grinding past one another in opposite directions – that’s what causes earthquakes.**

**“But there are places, usually under oceans, where one earth-raft slips under another and gets pulled down. They were called subduction zones.”**

“Let me stop you for a second,” said Bard, “I thought you didn’t remember much about Earth Science. Why do you even know all this anyway?”

“Do you remember when Sherlock came out of retirement for one last case? The one in… far in the west, across the ocean?”

“America, I think. California? And yeah, I remember.”

“That’s it. America. Well, he solved the case, and we stayed there a little longer on holiday. There was a minor earthquake while we were there. He was endlessly fascinated, of course, but that’s about the limit of his knowledge. He probably can’t even name the different types of rock.”

**“There are different types of rock?”**

“And there you have it.” Bilbo turned back to the dragon. “Please, continue.”

Smaug narrowed his eyes at the hobbit, then said, **“Gandalf said that the Silmaril was thrown so deep that not even the Lord of the Deeps could find it. In the Old World, the deepest point on Earth was a subduction zone eleven kilometers under the surface of the sea – a little over three times the height of the Lonely Mountain.”**

Thorin – and Gandalf, too – looked amazed at that. Even Bard and Bilbo swallowed, wide-eyed.

Smaug paused for a second, searching his memory, then said, **“To my admittedly limited knowledge, the floor of the Belegaer has never been mapped. It’s possible there could be one such subduction zone there, and the Silmaril was caught in it and pulled under into one of the currents of the core, and then pushed up into Erebor during a volcanic eruption. You said so yourself, Thorin-King: the Lonely Mountain used to be a volcano.”**

“I did,” the dwarf agreed, nodding, “But whatever the stone may really be, this curse you say is on it… is it the source of our misfortune? A dragon attack…”

“Gold-sickness,” added Bilbo.

 **“Armies of orcs,”** Smaug hummed, **“and I cannot say for sure. It may very well be. It was only by chance that I learned of the Treasure Under the Mountain in the first place, and while the goldlust is in my blood, it was also present here before ever I arrived.”**

Thorin frowned at that. “I’ve no wish to fall prey to it again. If it _is_ , what can be done? What happened to the Arkenstone in those books and magic pictures of yours?”

Bilbo blinked, then shook his head. “I can’t remember.”

“Don’t look at me,” said Bard, “I never read the books, and I didn’t see the last one.”

“‘Last one?’”

“There were three magic pictures made,” Bilbo explained to the dwarf and wizard, “‘Movies,’ they were called, because they moved. The first one told the tale of everything from the beginning of the Quest in my home to our arrival on the Carrock. The second one dealt with everything from there to Smaug leaving Erebor to attack Laketown, and the third one was everything from there to – what originally was your death and funeral, and my return home. Should be fairly obvious, but that very last bit hasn’t happened. Smaug? Do you remember what was done with the stone?”

The dragon’s eyes were narrowed, the very tips of his forked tongue between his teeth. At last, he said, **“In the original tale, you died, Thorin-King, and the Arkenstone was laid to rest with you in your tomb. So far as any other writings told, there it remained, and troubled no one.”**

“Returned to the earth…” The dwarf pursed his lips, then nodded. “That seems right. But I yet live and have no tomb, and those of my father and grandfather stand empty. Let it be with them, instead, when they gave so much trying to reclaim it.”

* * *

He had Gandalf confirm the dragon’s words before doing anything, of course, but a few words of High Elvish and a sharp rap from the wizard’s staff were sufficient to prove Smaug right – the Arkenstone was indeed a Silmaril, though which of the missing could not be known. And it was indeed cursed – invisible to most but revealed by the wizard’s magic, even though it had been hallowed by Varda, a web of sickly black magic was threaded around it, too powerful to have been laid in by anyone but Morgoth himself, too powerful for any but the Valar to remove.

It was laid to rest in secret in the empty tomb of Thráin, Thorin’s father, and there it remained, and troubled no one.


	2. Unforgotten Memories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Sherlock_ transcript taken from [here](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/43794.html).

Bilbo found Thorin standing on a shadowed ledge overlooking the treasure hoard. It was still in the process of being sorted and counted and stowed away and so the whole thing was under guard every second of every day, but Laketown and Thranduil’s wereguilds had been paid. They were all at peace.

For now.

The hobbit came up next to Thorin, and then saw what had caught and kept the dwarf’s attention. Smaug was stretched out on the gold, completely asleep, and the way he knew _that_ was that Bain, Sigrid, and Tilda were walking around on top of him under the watchful eye of their father. There were a number of other children, human and dwarf, sliding down his stretched-out wing and giggling all the while, unaware of the hobbit and dwarf king watching them.

Bilbo glanced at the dwarf, then looked back to his dragon. In more than a few ways, they were a lot alike, so he knew that all he had to do was wait.

“Every time I look at him, I see the fall of Erebor,” Thorin murmured, “Dale destroyed and burning… the gate breaking and dragonfire, my men dying around me, cooked inside their armor… My people starving and wandering in the wilderness…” His nose wrinkled, lips curling and eyes sparking. “Dragonfire and ruin… Laketown burning…

“But then I remember the wall of flame protecting the ruins of Dale, the wereworm tunnels filled with fire… The draught from his wings and Azog being knocked free… The roar that made the world shake, and Fíli living…” He rubbed a hand over his face, then he looked to the hobbit. “How do you reconcile it? Who he was then, in your Old World, with what he’s done here and now?”

“I try not to think about it, to be honest,” the hobbit answered, watching as Tilda went sliding down the dragon’s wing into Bard’s arms, “It is important to remember the past and learn from it, but what’s done is done. He can’t take back attacking Dale and Erebor, any more than you can take back your own brush with gold-sickness.”

Below them, Smaug woke and snorted sharply, making the children scream and scramble off him. Bard remained where he was as all of them ran to hide behind him, but the dragon just snorted again, circled around so he was lying the opposite direction, stretched out his other wing same as the first one, and settled back down.

Tilda was the first to climb back onto him, and she fearlessly met his golden gaze as he peered at her. Smaug just let out a hissing growl-sigh, and relaxed, blinking slowly under heavy lids. The other children took that as a sign and resumed climbing all over him, much to the amusement and consternation of their other minders, aka the hoard guards. Bard just shook his head, smiling.

“It’s hard not to see him as a dragon, one of the Great Fire-drakes, the most terrifying generals and weapons of war bred by Morgoth,” Thorin said, “He destroyed us once – he could do so again, and _so_ easily. All he has to do is wait. And he is ageless, deathless. He can wait long indeed.”

“He won’t.”

“But how do you _know?_ ” the king pressed, “He is no longer the Man you knew – the _whole world_ is changed.”

“Yeah, that’s fairly obvious,” Bilbo said bluntly, then softened his tone, “and yes, it has. And so it’s unreasonable to expect him to be exactly the same as he was then. We’ve been apart, and shaped but different experiences – our lives, our cultures, our _bodies_ are completely different, and he definitely drew the short straw on that one.”

“’The short straw?’”

“Ah, uh – the short end of the stick, the worst side of the deal.” Bilbo frowned, slightly sad. “I can tell you from my experience that being a hobbit is very like being a Man, just… _smaller_.

“But going from Man to dragon… I imagine it’s like being thrown into the deepest part of a lake without knowing how to swim. You find something to hold onto or you drown. And for the longest time, he’s been drowning.” Bilbo felt tears sting at his eyes, thinking about all the years Smaug spent alone – an eternity compared to his mere fifty years. Even Thranduil had had Tauriel, for a while at least, but Smaug had been alone, entirely alone in the grip of the Darkness.

“Now he has something to hold onto,” said Thorin, “but do you think he _will?_ ”

Bilbo exhaled, then said, “I think he’ll try, and really I think that’s all we can ask of him. Because of the body he was born into, he can’t… fight off the Darkness the way we can. All he can do is… hold it at bay. But he’s quite stubborn, quite willful. Perhaps he will surprise us both.”

They watched as a dwarf girl nearly bounded over to stand before Smaug’s massive maw, and then growled at him, curling her fingers into claws. She squealed in delight when he growled back.

“Were you lovers?” Thorin asked finally, “I can’t really imagine… mere friendship being enough for him to… tolerate all of this.”

“Lovers, no, but we did love each other,” Bilbo admitted, “From the moment we met, we spent… pretty much the whole rest of our lives together. Lived together, raised a child, retired to the country to raise bees.” The hobbit nodded a little and sighed. “He saved my life. And I’d like to think that, at least a little, I saved his.”

“How? You mentioned your meeting before, but how?”

“I was a doctor, a war doctor, I treated soldiers on the battlefield, right in the thick of things. It-it was a rush. I liked it, I was good at it.

“And then… I got hurt. In those days, there were a lot more people in the world then, like a _lot_. Over seven billion people, like hundred, thousand, million, _billion_ , seven _billion_ people. So there was another waiting to take my place, and I was sent home.

“Civilian life was so different then, _so_ different. There were people who didn’t even know there was fighting going on, because their part of the world was peaceful. It was – hard to adjust, almost impossible, because there was no one who really understood what it was like, there was no one close to me who had experienced the same things I had. I have no doubt that eventually I would have taken my own life because I didn’t know how to cope with the change.

"But by chance I met up with an old friend of mine, who was in the same group of students as me when we were studying medicine. I mentioned that I was looking for someone to, uh, share a house with, to cut the cost, because living where we all were at the time was very expensive, more than I could afford.

“He told me that I was the second person to say that to him that day.

“So we went, and he introduced me to Sherlock.” He smiled down at the dragon, but his mind was far away. “His mind was keener than a razor’s edge – he figured out quite a bit of my history and why I was there without ever speaking a word to me. I wish you could have met him at his height.” The hobbit chuckled. “He probably would have knocked you on your ass with how much he knew just by looking at you!

“God, how did he put it when he told me what he saw about me? ‘Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, says military. But your conversation as you entered the room - bit different from my day - said trained at Bart’s,’ the school of medicine, ‘so Army doctor – obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists. You’ve been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp’s really bad when you walk but you don’t ask for a chair when you stand, like you’ve forgotten about it, so it’s at least partly psychosomatic’ – that is, it was all in my head. ‘That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan – Afghanistan or Iraq.’ Two of the nations were the fighting was happening.’

“Then he started talking about my phone. It’s a, um, long-distance communication device, kind of like a Palantír. You know what those are?”

“I know the legends of them.” 

“Well, it’s kind of like that. You couldn’t see through it, but you could stand here in Erebor and talk to someone in the Blue Mountains like they were right in front of you. I could send short letters through it the same way as the talking, it could play music, it was expensive, but as he said, ‘you’re looking for a flatshare – you wouldn’t waste money on this. It’s a gift, then. Scratches. Not one, many over time. It’s been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn’t treat his one luxury item like this, so it’s had a previous owner.’

“There was an engraving on the back of it – ‘Harry Watson, From Clara’ with three kisses in shorthand. He said, ‘Clearly a family member who’s given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man’s gadget.  _Could_  be a cousin, but you’re a war hero who can’t find a place to live. Unlikely you’ve got an extended family, certainly not one you’re close to, so brother it is.

“‘Now, Clara. Who’s Clara? Three kisses says it’s a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently – this version’s only six months old. Marriage in trouble then – six months on he’s just given it away. If she’d left  _him_ , he would have kept it. People do – sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left  _her_. He gave the phone to  _you_ : that says he wants you to stay in touch. You’re looking for cheap accommodation, but you’re not going to your brother for help? That says you’ve got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you  _don’t_  like his drinking.’ 

“When I asked how he could _possibly_  know about the drinking, he said, ‘Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection’ – because like a fire not given new fuel, it too would die with time – ‘tiny little scuff marks around the edge of it. Every night he goes to plug it in’ to fuel it up again ‘but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man’s phone; never see a drunk’s without them.’”

After a minute of silence, Thorin said, “That’s _amazing_.”

“That’s what _I_ said!” Bilbo grinned.

“All that from just _looking_ at you… Was he right?”

“On almost all of it.”

“‘Almost?’”

“Harry was short for Harriet. My sister, not brother, but it was an easy mistake to make; other people had, too. But other than that, every word.” He kept grinning. “And that pretty much set up the rest of our lives together. Living with him was _never_ boring.”

Below them, some of the company had arrived, drawn by the delighted cries of the children. Fíli and Kíli walked up to the dragon, and the elder brother said something that made Smaug huff out a small cloud of black smoke. Both coughed and waved their arms to clear the air, then Fíli punched his nose and Kíli kicked him.

Almost immediately, both of them staggered away, clutching their injured limbs, their cursing in Khuzdul just audible over Smaug’s deep chuckles and Dwaling and Bofur’s roars of laughter.

“You said you raised a child together?”

“Ah, yes. Sherlock… worked with the town guard to help lock up criminals, and so he made quite a few enemies. One of them forced him to fake his death and leave me behind for a time. I tried to move on, met a woman named Mary – but Sherlock returned, and Mary’s past came back to haunt her. He killed someone in cold blood to protect her, because she mattered to me.

“She gave birth to a baby girl, Rosamund… but Mary was killed, and eventually Sherlock and I raised Rosamund together.” A smile tweaked his lips as he remembered coming home from the clinic to find a hovering consulting detective helping their tiny little girl take her first toddling steps, and how after that he panicked and voluntarily – _voluntarily_ – moved all of his equipment and experiments up and away from where Rosamund could have reached them.

“You said you raised bees?”

“That was afterwards, after Rosamund grew up, got married, and had a child of her own. There was a lot that went on, too much to tell in one conversation, or possibly even many.”

“And at the end? How did you both die?”

The hobbit was silent.

“Bilbo? Is – did I – are you all right?”

“It’s – it’s fine. It’s just… as far as I know I died in my sleep. My last memory is climbing into bed.

“But Sherlock…” Tears stung at his eyes again, blurring the sight of the dragon below. “… he started to forget things. Just little things, in the beginning, easy to pass off as just another sign of aging.

“But then he got worse… and worse, and worse. There was no cure, not even then, and so I watched as the man I knew – the man I _loved_ … faded away, and inch at a time, until the day came when he didn’t even know who I was.”

And that day, _that_ day, was the most painful in John Watson’s life, worse even than the day of the Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock had been looking at him such earnestness and confusion, and later alarm, and John knew that he was crying but he couldn’t stop.

Bilbo knew that he, too, was crying, but he couldn’t stop. He took a shuddering breath.

“Sherlock Holmes died long before he ever stopped breathing.”

The hobbit swallowed thickly. “It was a horrible, _horrible_ way to die, for anyone, but especially for him. _Especially_ for him. And it was horrible to _watch him die_ that way. He was so scared and confused – he didn’t know what was going on or where he was – all I could do was sit by his bedside and try to reassure him.” He wiped his eyes on his sleeve, but his tears just started falling faster. “ _That was the only time I told him I loved him,_ ” he choked on a sob.

“Why? Why didn’t you before then?” Thorin demanded, his own eyes glassy.

“I was afraid,” Bilbo admitted, “The world was different then, and two men loving each other was not looked well upon. My sister endured so much… _garbage_ from our father about loving other women that I didn’t want to suffer the same. I didn’t want _Sherlock_ to suffer the same, because he was very much in the public eye and – “coming out,” as it was, was very dangerous. I only realized later that _he_ was what mattered to me, not what people thought of us… but by then, it was too late.”

A second later, he was pulled into the dwarf king’s embrace, and he clutched at the fine furs and cloth of his clothing, crying softly into his shoulder. When at last he calmed, Thorin laid his hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, looked him in the eye, and said, “Whatever I may feel about him, you have my word as a Son of Durin that if war is to resume between him and me, it will fall to him to strike the first blow.”

Bilbo managed a tremulous smile. _“Thank you.”_


	3. Tribute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Behold my bullshitting about Smauglock's dragon family!

“What’s troubling you, Bilbo? You’ve been staring at me for almost an hour.”

“I’m trying to figure out how I will introduce you to my family,” replied the hobbit.

Smaug tilted his head, then marked his place and set his book aside to give the hobbit his full attention. “I was under the impression that you didn’t care what they thought of us,” he said, “Is that no longer the case?”

“You know it’s not,” Bilbo replied, making the dragon smirk a little, “but I’d like to at least remain on speaking terms with them, to make Frodo’s eventual adoption easier. At the same time, I wonder if there’s any point to it, given that you can’t go out in public without a hood and cloak.”

Smaug was working on making himself appear more like an actual human when he was in human form, rather than some sort of half-dragon beast. But it was slow going; even just folding himself down into his smaller shape took a lot of energy, and assuming a perfectly human shape required control keener than a razor’s edge, control he didn’t have yet. He _was_ getting better, though. Less than a year out from his first transformation, and already his horns and claws were much reduced in size, _almost_ invisible in his hair, though his coat of dragon scales still remained. His ears were still pointed too sharply to completely pass for an elf, not that too many hobbits would know that, and his eyes were still slit-pupiled and glowing golden with his fire.

“Then there’s the matter of your identity,” Bilbo went on, “Who do I say you are? No one in the Shire has heard of the Great Fire-drake Smaug, but beyond the borders that is certainly not the case, and hobbits can gossip like nothing else.”

“And I cannot be ‘Sherlock’ again, either, because as you said, we don’t know if there are enemies here who might recognize the name.” Smaug drummed his fingers on the arm of his couch – hobbit-sized, but still one of the most comfortable pieces of non-elven furniture he’d ever sat on. “I could be an elf, perhaps? We met on your travels?”

“But how, though? And what persuaded you to travel with me, much less love me?” Bilbo nibbled on the stem of his pipe. “Perhaps you were in Thranduil’s halls, who felt the king overstepped his bounds concerning Thorin and the company?”

“I helped you get the keys to the dungeons where your dwarf friends were held, but later I was discovered and forced to leave. When our paths crossed again on your return journey, I decided to come with you, for I was curious about these little people called ‘hobbits.’”

“That would be enough detail to satisfy, and it has a grain of truth in it. Tauriel did help me get the keys to the dungeon and was ‘banished,’ though for different reasons. But that still does not solve the riddle of your name. What are we to call you?” A thought occurred to him, one that made the hobbit grin a little around his pipe. “Perhaps we should make you one of the Wood Elves, and allow Thranduil to name you!”

Smaug scowled so darkly that Bilbo couldn’t help but burst out laughing. “While I do respect my brother for all he’s done and will do, I am _not_ being renamed by him,” he growled, a distinct draconian rumbling hiss underlaying his voice, “I would sooner take one of my kin’s names.”

“Then why not do that?” Bilbo said, still chuckling, “Are there any dragons you wouldn’t mind being named after?”

His eyes narrowed in thought. “One of my mother’s nestmates, Gostir, was the most tolerable of all dragons of the Withered Heath. He was a bit eccentric, but I liked him, as much as I liked anyone in those days.”

“What happened to him?”

“He was slain during the fall of Angmar, nearly a thousand years ago now.”

“…oh.”

“We weren’t _that_ close, Bilbo,” Smaug assured him, “He would bring food sometimes, after my father was killed during the War of the Last Alliance. My mother trusted him – as much as dragons trust anyone – and let him watch me and my nestmates while she hunted for herself.”

“Ah, I see. You have siblings?”

“Had. They’re all dead now.”

“…oh. What happened to them?”

“I killed them.”

“… _oh_.”

Smaug noticed his expression. “It is the way of dragons, Bilbo,” he said bluntly, “We were bred by the Dark One to fight, even against each other. It used to be that we were intentionally incited to fight each other, to cull the weak. Before his banishment, Morgoth said that only the strongest were permitted to survive, and so we challenged one another for supremacy. I am the strongest of my nest, as my mother and father were of theirs, and on back. The reason Gostir survived my mother, and also the reason he was considered eccentric, was because he was a coward and challenged no one, only fighting when he was attacked first.”

They sat in silence for many long minutes after that, Bilbo thinking and Smaug watching him. “I’ve been out into the world and seen some of the terrors it holds,” the hobbit admitted at last, “but I often forget that even now we’re practically at peace compared to earlier ages. That orcs and goblins, even such as they are, are far from the worst thing bred by the Darkness.” Bilbo met the dragon’s gaze. “Did they have names?”

He shook his head. “Only the survivor gets a name.”

“Your uncle got one.”

“For the longest time, he was only known as Uihuorë – the coward. Literally, ‘no courage.’ He mated another dragon like him, weak, with no name, and sired a small nest. But that was right before another elven raid into the Withered Heath, for those were common in the days immediately after Sauron’s defeat and the end of the Second Age. His mate was killed defending their nest, and when he found her body, he flew into a rage, and hunted down the raiding part and butchered them to a one. My mother was the first one to stumble across him after it was done, and named him _Gostir_ for the terrible sight he made.”

“And his nest?”

“The party did not reach it before he found them, so they survived, though later they, too, fought amongst themselves as we do. The survivor, Ugrost, died with Gostir in the fall of Angmar.”

“Were you there then? How did you survive?”

“Near as I can tell, I was hatched in the middle of the Second Age. The weaker dragons were driven out of Forodwaith, where most of us lived, and over the mountains into Angmar. We were spared the chaos of the Witch-King’s defeat.”

“Do you have _any_ family that’s still alive?”

“…an older brother whose name I never learned, but the last time I heard from him was more than five hundred years ago. He could have been killed.”

Bilbo sighed at that. “Well, at least your situation is less complicated than mine, relatively speaking.”

“Only relatively. If my brother is alive, I can’t imagine he’d approve of me taking ‘food’ as a mate.”

"'Food?’” Bilbo repeated, raising an eyebrow, “Is that how he’d see me?”

“Perhaps in light of our recent history, he’d be more inclined to view you as a thief, which is most certainly  _not_ better.” The dragon tapped a finger on the arm of his chair again, thinking. “It’s probably best if no one goes looking for him at all.”

“Agreed.” Bilbo chewed absently on his pipe stem.

There was a hammering on the door, and both of them stopped moving, staring. “Bilbo Baggins, I know you’re in there!”

The hobbit let out a string of swear words that would have been better suited to Captain John Watson than a well-off gentlehobbit.

“I take it that is Lobelia Sackville-Baggins,” Smaug observed as Bilbo scrambled out of his chair and hid behind it.

“No, it’s Gandalf. _Hide_ , Smaug!”

“She’s already seen us both. She looked in the window before knocking.”

Another string of profanities. Bilbo dragged himself to the door and cracked it open. “Yes, Lobelia?”

The other hobbit planted her hands on her hips. “I see you’ve had the gall to return from the dead!”

“I was never dead, Lobelia,” he sighed, “I’ve been helping some friends. Still am, now and again.”

“‘ _Friends_ ,’” she huffed, “I suppose you mean that pack of dwarves you were seen leaving with? And who is this?”

Smaug had come up behind Bilbo, stooping to fit his tall elvish frame in the hobbit hole. “I am Gostir,” he said easily, as if they hadn’t started making up a life for him twenty minutes ago, “I encountered Bilbo on his travels, and came to the Shire to learn more about his people. He has been kind enough to host me for the time being.”

He bowed slightly to the hobbit, who replied, “It’s been an honor having you here, Gostir.”

The dragon turned back to the hobbit lady. “And who might you be?”

Lobelia huffed and flounced off without another word.

Bilbo nearly slammed the door behind her and sighed in relief. “Thank goodness that’s over. And with any luck it’ll be all over Hobbiton by dinner time, so that solves that problem.”

“How ever did you end up with such unpleasant relatives?”

“Good question.”


	4. This Glittering Band

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dwarven Wedding info taken from [here](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/2013/04/11/whos-the-bride-dwarven-marriage/), and Elven Wedding info taken from [here](http://realelvish.net/essay/elvenwedding/).

“I think this is going to hold the record for the strangest wedding I’ve ever attended.”

**“There was an attempted murder at yours.”**

“Even so! I’d say that this situation is far more complex than that.” Bilbo paced in front of the dragon, who was lying on the now-polished golden floor of the Gallery of the Kings. Thorin had chosen to leave it where it had solidified. The only alterations made were the smoothing and polishing of the floor to a high shine.

The hobbit stopped and examined his reflection in the floor, and decided that even though the dwarven clothing had been tailored to his smaller frame, he still looked ridiculous. It was obviously dwarven clothing, and he was obviously not a dwarf. Beautiful though it was, it felt awkward compared to what he usually wore.

But he was part of the wedding party, and so he had to be appropriately attired. He folded his arms with a little difficulty and said, “I’m still not sure how this happened. I think I was tricked somehow.”

Smaug started chuckling. Bilbo glared at him, making him chuckle harder. **“You helped save the Kingdom of Erebor,”** he rumbled, **“and you are Tauriel’s friend. Of course they’re going to want you to be part of this.”**

“And how did _you_ get out of this?”

 **“I didn’t,”** the dragon hummed, **“She asked me to carry her and her wedding party from Mirkwood. Some of Ungoliant’s brood still prowl through the forest. The elves can take care of themselves, of course, but no one wanted to take any chances.”**

Bilbo huffed a little. “I can’t believe Thorin approved of this.”

 **“Oh, I wouldn’t go _that_ far,”** Smaug said, amused, **“You were in Dale at the time, but he had a screaming row with Dís when she told him what they intended. I couldn’t understand their words because they spoke in Khuzdul, but the halls rang with their anger. He almost _didn’t_ allow it.”**

The hobbit opened his mouth to comment, but was interrupted by footsteps, heavy and dwarven. It was Thorin, dressed in all his kingly finery for the upcoming ceremony. He nodded to them, then said, “We’re ready.”

Smaug heaved himself to his feet and padded from the hall, walking slowly enough that the hobbit could keep up at a fast walk. Thorin fell in beside them as they walked through the main gate.

Beyond, there was a great crowd gathered – dwarves of the Iron Hills and Blue Mountains, men and women of Dale, even a few elves of Mirkwood and representatives from Rivendell and Lothlórien. They formed a wide circle around Smaug’s new harness. The first had been cobbled together when he’d requested it, so he could fly Bilbo to Mordor, but the second had been crafted by skilled leatherworkers and blacksmiths, and allowed him to do and carry much more.

The massive dragon laid down over it, and allowed the nimblest of dwarves and men to scurry over him, strapping him in. When they hopped down and he got back up, cheers erupted through the crowd. Though he had laid low their ancestors – and burned Laketown – more prominent in their minds was the wall of fire protecting Dale, entire divisions of orcs burning, the sight of him yanking one of Azog’s wereworms out of the ground when it threatened to mow through Dale, roaring and blasting fire down its throat.

He’d been helpful in other ways, too, hunting for the people of Dale and Erebor during that first hard winter, transporting stone from quarries for repairs, but that all was more at Bilbo’s request than any active desire to help. He was still a dragon. He’d also told them that they didn’t have to thank him for what he did, because they didn’t matter to him and so, while appreciated, their thanks were not necessary. The only people he was really concerned with pleasing were Bilbo, Bard, Tauriel, and Thranduil, and Bilbo most of all. Everyone had quickly learned that to get the dragon’s help, it was best to talk to the hobbit first.

Smaug leaped into the sky, wings beating fiercely, then he banked away toward Mirkwood and Thranduil’s halls. Bilbo went in search of Dís, Thorin’s sister.

The hobbit found the dwarven princess overseeing the finishing touches on the chambers for the soon-to-be newlyweds. The grooms were running around in a panic, but she was as calm as could be, instructing the servants to put that vase of flowers there, and that bowl of water and lilies there, and adjust the filmy white drapes so that they fell just so. She spotted him hovering but the door and said, “Ah, Master Baggins! Come in, come in. What do you think?”

He looked around. The room had an unmistakably dwarven base, but the elven accents being arranged throughout the room managed to create a pleasing melding of cultures rather than a mismatched mishmash. “I think it’s wonderful.”

Dís nodded in approval at his words. “Good. So tell me, what brings you here?”

“Smaug told me that you were the one who convinced Thorin to allow this.”

Her brow creased a little at the dragon’s name, as it likely always would, but then she snorted. “‘Allow’ is a bit of a strong word,” she said wryly, “‘Allowing’ implies at least a little approval. ‘Convinced him to tolerate it’ would be more accurate. My brother is stubborn as stone, but there comes a point when even he will bow to greater wisdom. And a bit of brawling.”

“He said you had quite the row, but not that there was any fighting involved.”

“Oh, there’s always fighting when we disagree,” she laughed, waving a hand dismissively, “Nothing serious, of course, although I did break his arm once.”

“You’d think he would have learned after that.”

“Ha! My brother never learns, but he can be persuaded to relent.”

“And you – approve of this?”

“I do, and while I can’t say I understand entirely, I know my sons’ hearts. You heard how it happened?” When he shook his head, she said, “Ah, well, it seems that both Fíli _and_ Kíli had fallen in love with the she-elf Tauriel, although for different reasons in the beginning. But like the strange brothers they are, each wanted to give up his claim to her heart, so the other could be happy. I sent for her to choose between them and settle the matter, but they were still arguing when she arrived. She must have gotten the gist of it, because she swept their heads together and then kissed them both.” Dís grinned widely. “Never thought I’d see the day, but she’s an Elf after my own heart.”

That made Bilbo smile. Maybe it was Middle-earth, maybe it was Thranduil, maybe it was her time and experience, but Molly had become a lot stronger when she became Tauriel, both physically and personally. It suited her, and he was glad for her.

The faintest echoes of a distant roar reached them, Smaug announcing that he was on his way back.

“Well,” said Dís to the room at large, “shall we go and greet the bridal party?”

* * *

The ceremony itself was a well-ordered combination of elven and dwarven traditions, with Thorin reading their marriage contract aloud (in Westron, of course) and Thranduil standing in for Tauriel’s parents to bless the union in the sight of Manwë and Varda, and also Aulë – Mahal – for the dwarves.

As the ceremony was winding to a close, the feasting about to begin, there was the cry of a hawk from beyond the mountain’s gates, strangely resonant and commanding attention. A pure white eagle soared into Erebor, silver motes of light trailing from its wings. It flew a wide circle around the dais where the bride and grooms stood, then dropped a velvet pouch into Thorin’s hands and flew back out again. Everyone watched it go, then turned back to the dwarf king, who opened the pouch.

Inside were three smooth gold wedding bands with the smallest of faceted diamonds scattered around the outside, twinkling like stars, too finely crafted to have been made by anyone but the Great Smith himself, and delivered by one of the Eagles of Manwë. Thorin sighed, relenting at last, and offered the rings up.

One by one, they were placed on the proper fingers, and when their hands were held up for all to see and witness the union, the halls of Erebor rang with thunderous applause.

The feasting that followed promised to last much longer than the usual week. Bilbo socialized for a time, meeting more people then than the entire rest of the time he’d spent in the mountain. But eventually he grew tired and went to find Smaug, knowing that wherever he was there was bound to be relative quiet.

The dragon was in his human form on a balcony high above the party, a shadow limned in torchlight, not part of the festivities but close enough to observe all that was happening. Bilbo settled down next to him on the bench, and started to drift off almost immediately. Just as he fell completely asleep, he felt a warm scaled arm wrap around his shoulders and pull him close.


	5. Follow Our Brothers

“Why are we stopping?”

**“Where are they.”**

“What?”

 **“The Ringwraiths,”** the dragon hissed, creeping closer to the end of the pass with as much stealth as he could manage, **“His armies! Their numbers have been cut by more than half!”**

There were only four of the Nazgûl visible from their location, all of them closely orbiting Mount Doom, and half the orcs and almost all their siege weapons were gone, leaving the Plateau of Gorgoroth looking ominously empty.

“Minas Tirith didn’t look as if it had been attacked.”

**“They must have passed it by. But where would they go?”**

Then, as one, _“The Mountain.”_

Smaug leaped into the air, abandoning stealth in favor of speed. The Ringwraiths didn’t notice him, too far away to spot the dragon’s shadow against the greater darkness of night, and so they fled Mordor unimpeded. The dragon dove to gain speed, swooping so low that there was barely room for his wings to beat between him and the ground, then ascended so high that the hobbit found it difficult to breathe.

They flew through the night and well into the next day, arriving at the Mountain a scant half an hour after Sauron’s armies did. The battle had only just begun when Smaug barreled down through the clouds, aiming straight for the Witch-King.

The Fell beast shrieked and tried to evade him, but it was too small and too slow, its rider too large and heavy compared to the dragon’s. This time Smaug’s jaws closed completely over the back half of its body, biting it cleanly in half, then he let the fire build in his belly. As they fell together, he turned and blasted the Witch-King with a thick gout of dragonfire, as strong as he could make it.

His allies cheered at the sight of him taking on the Ringwraiths, and redoubled their efforts against the orcs on the ground. The Nazgûl shrieked and swarmed around him as the Witch-King crumbled to ash, gone but not dead – not yet.

But as the dragon got his wings back under him, turning to fight the others, Bilbo saw something that made his heart skip a beat. Time seemed to slow, and his vision tunneled, zeroing in on the ballista swinging around to point at them. And nocked to the massive siege bow…

“Smaug, look out!”

The dragon didn’t question him, just pulled in his wings and dropped like a stone. The Black Arrow whizzed past them, missing them by inches and vanishing into the blue sky, and Smaug roared in fury. Yet as he turned to search for that ballista – and the others no doubt present – the Ringwraiths swooped in again, shrieking. The dragon snapped at them, then banked sharply to avoid another Arrow, Bilbo holding on for dear life.

Below them, the dwarves and men pushed hard and overwhelmed the ballista closest to them, keeping the Arrows but setting fire to the siege engine itself. One down, nine to go.

Smaug roared and dove, and breathed out a long stream of fire into the ranks of orcs, taking out two more ballistas. One got off a shot before being destroyed, but the Arrow just skipped off his scales. Bilbo whispered a quick prayer of thanks to the Valar, and also to Eru, and begged them to protect his dragon, his Heart, during the battle.

Another Arrow hit the dragon’s shoulder, but went spinning off into the void, barely scratching his armor. Smaug roared in fury none the less, and went for that ballista next. This one he smashed with his tail as he passed, ascending once more to fight the Nazgûl. One of them was close enough that he closed his mouth around it, the ends of the Fell beast’s wings flapping futilely against his teeth. The dragon brought all of his incredible bite force to bear on it, crushing it between his jaws, then flipping it around to do so from another angle, then another, then another, before blasting it out of his mouth with a stream of fire.

Then he shrieked, his wings suddenly pinned to his sides by a spell cast by all three of the remaining Ringwraiths. The dragon began plummeting out of the sky, writhing in the grip of the dark magic and trying to angle himself to minimize the impact.

There was a loud explosion like cannon fire, and the air around Smaug was blasted away, then came rushing back. It was Gandalf; he had thrown off the Ringwraiths’ spell, but already they were gathering for another attempt. Smaug dropped to avoid it, weaving through the battlefield low to the ground.

The dwarves and men pushed hard again and overwhelmed a second ballista, but this one they did not destroy. A heavy guard took shape around it, Kíli at the helm of the siege engine. He only managed to get off one Arrow, but that Arrow caught the enemy unaware, and pierced a Fell beast and Nazgûl both. The Wraith dissolved before it hit the ground, but its mount wasn’t so lucky, its body breaking on hard stone. It shivered once and lay still.

Orcs on the western side of the army began dropping like flies, elven archers and swordsmen emerging from Mirkwood. The archers kept their distance but launched volley after volley into the enemy ranks to cover the swordsmen as they closed the gap between them and the orcs.

The armies of dwarves, elves, and men linked up to form a wide V on one side of the orc army. On the opposite side, Smaug began breathing wide semicircles of dragonfire, each one making the wall of flames thicker and thicker. When he judged the band wide enough, he broke off to pursue the two remaining Ringwraiths while the allied armies began driving the orcs back into the fire.

The Ringwraiths tried their trip again, but this time Smaug saw it coming. By the time they locked on, he was only a hundred feet from the ground. He landed heavily amid the orcs, crushing the sixth ballista and the dozens, if not hundreds of orcs around it. The dragon’s wings were still pinned to his sides and so he could not get up to do battle, but – while ungainly – thrashing this way and that to send orcs flying and snapping at everything in reach proved to be an adequate substitute.

Bilbo, meanwhile, plastered himself against Smaug’s back and held on tight. He was quite certain that the dragon had forgotten about him in his desire to defend the mountain and his hoard (which was only partially true; though that was at the forefront of his mind, the dragon still took care never to roll over and crush the fragile hobbit on his back), but he dared not try to get down. He was safer where he was, though only marginally.

At last the spell relented, the Wraiths dueling with the Wizard. Smaug pushed himself up, then whipped around, crushing hundreds of orcs with the swing of his heavy tail and sending hundreds more flying. He roared loud enough to make Bilbo’s ears ring, and swung his tail again, killing still more orcs.

Though the allied armies had taken casualties, too, by that point less than a third of the orcs remained. There were far less organized than Azog’s armies had been, though they had more powerful weapons. Many of them turned and fled, deciding to take their chances with the fire and trying to find a way around.

Smaug remained on the battlefield long enough to make sure that none attempted to turn back toward the Mountain. Then he _hissed_ and leaped back into the sky, harrying the one remaining Ringwraith away before angling back towards Erebor. He was only vaguely aware of horns sounding, and the distant shouts of Thorin Oakenshield roaring, “Open the gate! Let him pass, _let him pass!_ ”

The doors swung open at his approach, dwarves and Men (and the occasional Elf) scurrying out of his way. He climbed down bridges and ledges, staircases and halls, down to where most of the hoard still lay.

The instant he sank into the gold, he was calm again, and heaved a massive sigh, eyes drooping shut. The hobbit took that as a sign that it was safe to climb down, and fumbled for the straps of the harness with shaking fingers.

His feet hit the gold and crumpled immediately, but he caught himself against the dragon and lowered himself to the ground.

 **“Are you all right?”** the dragon rumbled, **“Were you hurt?”**

“I’ll have some interesting bruises for a while, but otherwise I’m fine.” He leaned against Smaug’s side, his scales still hot with the fire of battle. “Are _you_ all right?”

 **“Yes.”** Like most of Girion’s Arrows, two had struck their marks but skipped off his scales, leaving only the lightest of scratches in his armor. Smaug sighed deeply, and shifted to curl around the hobbit in a wide circle. **“I need to speak to Gandalf, or perhaps Lord Elrond or Lady Galadriel.”**

“About what?” Bilbo asked, meeting his gaze, “What’s wrong?”

 **“I have been thinking,”** he hummed, **“Do you remember that game that Rosamund would play online with Gerald’s son?”**

“It was Greg, and I think so. _The Elder Scrolls Online_ , right?”

**“Yes, that’s it. The previous game, _Skyrim_ – one part of it involved a dragon who had overcome his nature through meditation.”**

“The one on top of their Mount Everest, yeah. I vaguely remember that. Rosamund got really angry when she heard David killed him in his game.”

**“Paarthurnax, yes. I cannot say whether that method will work for me as it did for him, but we won’t know until we try.”**

After a moment of thinking back, Bilbo asked, “Wasn’t he a pacifist?”

**“He was, but even he stood and fought when the world was threatened, and I will do the same.”**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PAARTHURNAX MY BEAUTIFUL CINNAMON ROLL TOO GOOD FOR THIS WORLD TOO PURE  
> I swear to God I almost jumped my brother when he said he killed him as part of the Blades quest  
> FUCK THE BLADES


	6. Pale Rider

“How many does this make?”

“Eight this year, Thorin-King.”

The dwarf king kicked what remained of the wicked dwarf who had attempted to assassinate Smaug. When it became apparent that no army was great enough to conquer the Mountain while dwarves and dragon were allied, Sauron had turned to stealth. Thorin went nowhere without a guard of dwarves, but Smaug regularly wandered by himself in his half-human half-dragon form, with nothing but his claws, teeth, and fire to defend him.

Though many – indeed, most – dwarves refused to bow to Sauron, there were still some who would ally with him, for one reason or another. He sent them singly and in groups to try and kill the dragon while he roamed the halls of Erebor, but so far none had succeeded in even substantially injuring him.

Thorin let out a very dragonlike growl. “This _has_ to stop.”

“You know it won’t,” Smaug replied, “not until I’m dead. Sauron fears me as his enemy for the same reasons you did. You are King Under the Mountain, leader of the Seven Armies, but I am still the greater threat.”

“What am I supposed to do, then? Throw you from the Mountain? Send you to wander the wilds? We both know you will not go, and you are too great and ally for me to ever willingly turn you out.”

Smaug smiled a little at that. “I appreciate that you can actually say the words now.” He glanced around, then stepped closer to the dwarf and lowered his voice. “In truth, I have been thinking of leaving for a while now.”

“Why?!” the dwarf king hissed.

“Bilbo,” the dragon answered, “In this world, he does not have the One Ring to sustain him. He’s getting _old_ , Thorin. The journey to Erebor and back gets harder for him every year, even when I take him by air the whole way.” He shook his head. “If we keep this up, he’s not going to last.”

“You want to stay in the Shire,” the dwarf realized, “and take care of him.”

“Of course I do. He has allowed me to add him to my hoard, and he is the smallest but greatest of all my treasures. I would see him _live_ , and pass into the West, where he might live forever, free and unburdened.”

“Then how are we to conceal your disappearance? You can’t simply _vanish_ with no explanation. The Enemy would find it too convenient, too suspicious.”

But Smaug simply smirked. “I have told you many things about me, Thorin-King, but I have not told you everything. I can appear completely human now, when I wish. I will simply leave here as a dragon, and come back as an Elf and take Bilbo home.”

“That solves the problem of you hiding for good, but what about as a dragon? How does ‘Smaug’ disappear?”

“That’s the easy part.” His smirk widened. “I’m going to die.”

* * *

“Any sign of him?” Thorin demanded, nearly thundering down the steps to the main hall.

“We went as far as the northern edge of Mirkwood,” one of the scouts reported as they all swung down from their goats, “Nothing.”

Thorin growled and dragged a hand down his face, then whirled on Gandalf. “What did you tell him?!” he demanded, “You brought news from the North – what did you say?!”

“I told him there were dragons gathering on the Withered Heath,” the wizard answered at last, “I don’t know whether they were summoned or gathered of their own accord, but the last time they came together in such numbers… was when Sauron ruled these lands.”

The dwarf king ran his fingers through his hair, upsetting his crown. “It’s been nearly a month! Surely it could not have taken so long to slaughter a few drakes!”

“If indeed he _did_ go there to kill them,” one of his less forgiving councilors muttered.

Bilbo may have been older, but he still had life to him. He whirled around and glared with such ferocity that the dwarves quailed before him. “Smaug has been a loyal ally for the past _thirty years_ ,” the hobbit hissed, “It’s thanks to him that this kingdom has been safe from the Enemy’s armies, that you still have a king and heirs directly from Durin’s line!”

“He _burned_ Erebor!”

“If it hadn’t been him, there would have been another!” Bilbo shot back, “Another dragon who would have come down from the North and taken the mountain! Another dragon who died that night in Laketown, and left us all to be butchered by Azog and his armies – or worse, lived and _joined_ him!”

“I will go.”

They all turned to look at the Elf who had joined them. He was tall and lean, with long, dark, wavy hair and amber eyes that glittered strangely in the torchlight.

“Gostir, you cannot,” Bilbo protested, “With Legolas off in the Wilf, you are Thranduil’s heir! You cannot go to the Withered Heath!”

“Neither can you,” the Elf reminded him gently, “Besides, my opinion of his intelligence notwithstanding, I highly doubt my brother will do something stupid and get himself killed anytime soon, and I will just be scouting the Heath, not doing battle against every drake there.”

The hobbit sighed heavily.

“Smaug means much to you, Bilbo Baggins,” Gostir said, tilting the smaller male’s chin up, “and I owe you a great deal for bringing my _brother_ back to me, rather than my _king_. Let me do this for you.”

He sighed again and nodded. “All right.”

“I will go with you,” said Gandalf, striding forward with staff in hand, “I got him into this mess. I will get him out, if I can.”

* * *

**“Hello at long last, _little brother._ ”**

Smaug licked the blood from his jaws and let a low growl rumble in his throat. **“Hello, elder brother. Mother never told me your name.”**

**“I am Nithnaed.”**

The dragon before him was similar to him in so many ways, reddish in color, roughly the same size, with two wings and two legs, more like a wyvern than a “true” dragon. But there, the similarities ended. Nithnaed’s armor was scarred with battle, and the last four feet of his tail had been bitten off. And he was thin, too thin to be completely healthy, brought on by the poor hunting in the North.

Same as the other dragons Smaug had already killed.

Nithnaed’s eyes narrowed sharply. **“I heard that you gave up the hoard in your Mountain,”** he hissed, “ **‘Too much like Uncle Gostir,’ I thought, but even _he_ would never have sunk so low as to allow _anyone_ to _ride him_ like a common beast of burden!”**

 **“I have given up much of my gold, it is true,”** Smaug growled, shifting to better shield the Wizard who was strapped into his harness, **“but with every day that passes, the dwarves bring me _more_. And I have gained a treasure more valuable than all the gold in Arda.”**

 **“Impossible!”** the other dragon snarled, **“There is no such thing!”**

 **“Maybe not to _you_ ,”** Smaug replied, and lunged. Nithnaed met him with teeth bared and claws flashing. Smaug used his momentum to whip around and add force to his tail swing, enough to knock his brother off his feet and throw him into one of the sheer cliff faces partially surrounding the Withered Heath. Then he leaped at the other dragon, but Nithnaed jumped into the air.

Smaug followed, and they dueled in the sky with fang and claw, for dragonfire was no use against another dragon. They seemed equally matched, Nithnaed making up for his weaker body with greater experience fighting other dragons. He went for Smaug’s wings right away, trying to ground the other dragon so he could get on top of him and bite and break his neck, but in his preoccupation with his brother, he forgot about the Wizard.

Gandalf blasted him away before he could slice the membranes of Smaug’s wings, sending him spinning out of control through the air. He righted himself quickly and breathed a short stream of smoky fire, trying to cloud the battlefield, but the Wizard put an end to that, too, chanting a quick spell to increase the strength of the draft coming off Smaug’s wingbeats. Nithnaed barreled out of the thinning smoke, aiming for the Wizard this time, but Smaug rolled with his attack, tangling their legs and tails together and sending them tumbling toward the ground.

Nithnaed shrieked in fright and tried to writhe free, but that just gave Smaug greater control. The younger dragon beat his wings just before they hit the ground to lessen the impact on the Wizard. The elder dragon hit with Smaug on top of him, and lay stunned for just long enough for Smaug to find the back of his neck and bite down. Even their armor was no match for the crushing power of another dragon.

Smaug waited for the last of Nithnaed’s death throes to die down before he released his grip. Then he stood over his brother’s corpse for several long minutes, panting.

“It’s over, then,” Gandalf said at last, “You are the last of all the dragons.”

 **“So it would seem,”** he rumbled, **“Now to cover our tracks.”**

With Gandalf’s help, Smaug managed to wrestle his brother’s body into his harness and then onto his back with his head flopping over one shoulder. He bit through his throat just enough to cause a long, slow bleed and began crawling from the Withered Heath and into the Grey Mountains. Eventually, they reached the place they had scouted out before any battles had begun: a skylight, a dark hole in the roof of an underground cavern. Smaug threw Nithnaed’s body down into it, and the corpse vanished into the dark, eventually hitting the distant ground with a heavy thud.

**“That should be adequate, don’t you think?”**

Smaug’s crawling and struggling had left long, clear drag marks in the soil, and the blood that spilled from Nithnaed’s throat left pools and smears behing, marks of severe injury. If anyone else came looking, they would find unmistakable “evidence” of Smaug’s “demise.”

* * *

The hall fell silent when they returned, and came to stand before the king. They were obviously without Smaug, and so there was only one conclusion anyone could reach.

Thorin was an admirable actor. He swallowed thickly, then clenched his teeth and steeled himself. “What did you see?”

“There was a great battle on the Heath,” Gandalf answered quietly, “Dozens of dragons slain – possibly all of those left in our part of the world. But victory… came at a price.”

Gostir began unwrapping the bundle he carried. “He won all his battles with the other dragons, but was gravely injured. We followed his trail as far as we could… and found this.”

It was a ring, a large steel ring, slightly warped, with a bloodstained leather strip sown onto it, ragged at one end where it had been ripped free of Smaug’s harness.

There were gasps all around, murmurs through the crowd. “It is as I feared, then,” said Thorin, “He is dead.”

Bilbo sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands.

* * *

“How long do you think it will take us to get back to the Shire? Now that we’re going completely by land, I mean.”

“At least four months, maybe longer. But we’ll be waiting until next spring to set out.”

“S-Gostir, it’s barely June! We have plenty of time!”

“That’s not it, Bilbo. This is the Year 2977 of the Third Age.” He cupped the hobbit’s face in his hands. “This is the year Bard dies.”

* * *

Bilbo remembered enough of the medicine of the Old World to give everyone regular check-ups, and the Man was hale and hearty – until he wasn’t. This sickness came on so suddenly that at first they all thought he had been poisoned. Thranduil sent his best healers from Mirkwood, then came himself when it became apparent that it was simply Bard’s time.

They all gathered in his chambers with his children and grandchildren, and waited. They had all been together so long that there was nothing left for them to say.

Bard breathed his last in the early hours of the morning on September 3, TA 2977. Bilbo and Gostir stayed long enough to see Bain crowned King of Dale, then departed for the Shire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nithnaed comes from Old English, "niþ" _nith_ meaning hatred, and "nædre" meaning snake or serpent. Thus, "hated serpent," a fitting name for a dragon. (I don't know if this is the proper pronunciation - may Tolkien forgive me if it's not - but I say it as "Nihth-nay-ed."  
>  Also, I'm interviewing for a new job, so expect updates to come slower, but I'll try to make up for that by cutting the LotR series down into smaller chapters rather than doing it movie by movie.


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